The Letter of the Law
by Caipora
Summary: Hogwarts' lawyer visits to resolve a semester of student problems, including a localized growing potion, parents who don't approve of a werewolf boyfriend, and a peeping ghost. He finds nothing that a bit of bribery and blackmail can't solve. Note: Those


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This was written for restrictedsection.org's Sleazy Fic Drive in January of 2003. Restricted Section had just received a Cease & Desist letter from a law firm that represents JK Rowling, and in the past has represented such figures as Wallis Warfield Simpson. The firm signs its letters with its name, which is the name of a long-deceased partner. 

Resticted Section is an archive of adult Harry Potter fan fiction. They require "NC-17" material. As I don't use graphic violence, strong language (though I went as far as "Damn Yankees!" here) or explicit sexual situations, offensiveness was my only hope of scaling the heights of NC-17. 

I failed; Restricted Section labeled it "R" but took it anyways. However, there's a saying that those who love law or sausages should never watch either being made. Those persons would be well advised to give this one a pass. 

* * *

"Theo! Do come in. So good to see you." 

"And always a pleasure to visit your school, Albus, always a pleasure. So many places I can't visit nowadays, but here nary a head turns when I pass. A relief at my age, Albus, a great relief." 

Dumbledore would normally greet guests at the door. But to avoid the awkward impossibility of a handshake, he had merely risen and remained by his desk while the other walked across the big circular room to him. 

The visitor hitched up his trailing black gown and settled into one of the comfortable leather wing chairs kept for guests - not one of the hard wooden seats where schoolboys sent to the Headmaster perched and sweated. 

Dumbledore sat and from one of the heaps of paper on his desk produced a small enameled box. "Snuff?" 

"Bless you, Albus Dumbledore! Unlike drink, it's a vice I can still indulge in." He took a pinch from the box, inhaled it sharply, and sneezed, dislodging his powdered white wig. He pushed it back atop his bald pate, then peered through round glasses at the stacks of paper on Dumbledore's desk. 

"I see you have plenty of tasks. But I dare say the briefs I sent you are the tallest of the lot." Theo gestured at a pile of folders tied with red tape that teetered at one edge of the desk. "Read them yet? Read them all?" 

"I was hoping you'd explain them to me, Theo. The language of spells is simple compared to what your profession writes." 

"You always promise to read them and never do. I think the schoolboys teach you bad habits, instead of you teaching them good ones. 

"Well, let's get to it then. As I recall, nothing difficult this term. None of your teachers in Azbakan, and, ah, you finally took my advice and gave the Dark Arts teacher only a one-year contract, so there's nothing to unravel there. 

"That just leaves the students. Pass me the top folder, if you would be so good." 

Dumbledore waved a hand and a folder floated from the top of the stack, red tape untying itself as it descended to the desk. The solicitor leaned over to read the top page. "Ah yes, 'Moaning Myrtle'. You remember the case, Albus?" 

"Dear me, yes. Two Hufflepuff boys caught her peering at them in the prefect's bath. I suppose she spooked them, but I don't understand why they kicked up such a fuss." 

"You should get out more, Albus, and stay more up-to-date. Sexual abuse is a big concern in the Muggle world, and these two boys have four Muggle parents. I had to talk to them in Muggle terms." 

"And what would those be, Theo?" 

"I explained that Myrtle had been at the school for over fifty years, since she was a wee lass. Told them her birthdate and pointed out she was just short of retirement. Said you'd taken her off the payroll already." 

"All true, as far as it goes. Did they accept it?" 

"They wanted her placed on the sexual offenders registration list. The law is quite clear. There was no way out, so I said yes." 

Dumbledore detected a twinkle in the solicitor's voice, and raised an eyebrow. "And . . .? 

"The law is, as I said, quite clear, quite clear. Registration is lifetime. Lifetime only, and Myrtle is beyond that." 

Dumbledore chuckled. A wave of his wand sent the folder to rest beside the fireplace, and another folder floated down to the take its place on the desk. 

"Ah yes. Ernie Macmillan. The boy with the localized growing potion." 

"Every year or two a student runs across that recipe, or one like it. There's always been a dozen imitators. This year, I'm pleased to say, there were none." 

"I imagine not, Albus. His parents thought your measures a little extreme. For once I agree with them. Agree with them. Told them I'd get an explanation from you and meet them again next week. Albus, couldn't you have simply reversed the spell?" 

"Theo, when you take over a case from a solicitor who's made a botch of it, at least you know what he did. You have all the motions he filed, all the rulings the judge made. But I have no way of knowing just how a student magician spoiled a spell. Take young Ernie. 

"He was clever enough to ask for a little growth every night, rather than all at once. His intent was cautious, but beyond his skills. 

"He intended three nights of growth, or so he told me. None of the potion was left for me to test. The spell wore off after three phases of the moon. But it might have been three turns of the tide, or three seasons, or three of anything. How could I reverse that? Safer by far to wait for the spell to wear off. 

"Then, he got the units wrong. This sort of spell, as you may know, tends to be French. When Ernie thought he was asking for an inch of growth, he was asking for a meter. A simple mistake on paper, but rather cumbersome in the flesh." Dumbledore shook his head with a faint smile. "At least we learned of the problem the first day. A young lady in a loose robe leaned over her cauldron in Potions class, and young Macmillan fainted when the blood rushed from his head." 

After a moment the solicitor spoke. "I told his family that, explained the risks of a miscalibrated spell. Said that if you used a reversal that was too potent, might leave the boy, ah, less potent. Believe I persuaded them, believe I did. Explained having Madam Pomfrey trim the excess every morning was the safest route. But they asked me - and I must ask you, Professor, I must ask you - could she not have used a spell? Was it really necessary to use a knife? Every morning for three weeks? While the boy watched?" 

"Theo, it was quite likely it would be only once, or only a few days. If there weren't some unpleasant consequence for young Macmillan the hospital wing would have been full of overendowed boys. I needed to make an example. Had I known it was to be three weeks I would have taken another course. But had I known that," Dumbledore spread his hands, "I could have undone the spell at once. I didn't know. And of course, the boy **could** have shut his eyes." 

The lawyer sighed. "Perhaps they'll accept that. But the boys' parents made two more complaints. The boy was upset about, ah, 'breakfast sausages'?" 

"And how did you respond to that?" asked Dumbledore. 

"I insisted on proper language. I said that in my dictionary a sausage is ground meat stuffed into an intestine, and that clearly was not the situation here." 

"Actually, Thedore, that definition does half apply. It seems his roommates..." 

"Used a meat grinder on him? Good Heavens!" 

"No, Theo. The other half of the definition." 

"Ah." The lawyer looked at the paper for a moment, and shook his head. "The boy's father said he didn't want to play with words. Said I could call say 'breakfast wieners' for all he cared, but he wanted an explanation. 

Dumbledore got up from his chair and walked over to one of the windows. He pointed. "Theo, over there by the edge of the Forbidden Forest is the castle's midden. The forest creatures rummage through the garbage. We cannot have them developing a taste for human flesh." 

"But surely ..." 

"I recall on one of your visits explaining how we know when mandrakes are ripe. Do you remember what I told you, Theo?" 

"Well yes, fascinating, I even told one of my other clients about them, but I don't see ..." 

"They grow secretive and surly. They get acne and throw wild parties. When they want to move into each other's pots, they're mature. Then do you know what we do, solicitor?" 

Theo nodded his head. 

"We slice them up and make potions of them." 

Dumbledore sat down heavily. "I sometimes question the doctrine that plants are never sentient. If there were an alternative to mandrakes, I would prohibit their use. But there are curses, like a basilisk's gaze, that cannot be cured without mandrake. So we plant them, we watch over them like children as they grow up. And then we slice them up. 

"In comparison, what young Macmillan went through was no more serious than cutting his hair or his toenails, or taking a bit of blood. And wizards commonly use hair, toenails and blood in potions." 

"I see. There is no ethical issue, really. I understand, quite understand. 

"But Albus, even if you had to make an example of the boy, I don't see as you had to make a snack of him. Simply as a matter of taste, to eat ..." 

"Here, Theo." Dumbledore waved his wand, and a file drawer across the room opened and a paper pulled itself out of a folder and flew across the room. "This is a list of ingredients for Snape's fourth-year potions course. Read it, and remember that potions are usually drunk. The boy's parents both studied here, and they've been brewing potions ever since. 'Breakfast wieners' are nothing compared to some of the ingredients on that list." 

The lawyer picked up the list, read a few lines, and blanched. "I see. I suppose Macmillan's parents were pretending outrage to play to my Muggle sensibilities. 

"You know, Albus, I'd wondered at the student reaction. The boy claims that the first day the wieners were served, a Blaise Zabini took a bite, clapped her hands and squealed, "It tastes like - " 

"'Chicken'," interrupted Dumbledore, "I'm sure the young lady meant to say 'chicken'. And, you know, we'd been having trouble getting students to breakfast. But for the next three weeks, attendance was much improved. As I recall, the Slytherin girls and the Ravenclaw boys were particularly assiduous about arriving early." 

"'The early bird gets the worm', eh?" The lawyer chuckled as he turned the pages, then paused and lifted one. "But in their last complaint, Albus, they allege material harm. They claim Madam Pomfrey got careless in her measurements, and took off an extra half-inch on what turned out to be the last day of the spell, leaving Master Macmillan shortchanged." 

"Well, Theo, Madam Pomfrey merely guessed at the right spot, and ..." The Headmaster made a chopping motion. 

"She guessed? Guessed and swung a cleaver?" The solicitor pulled out a handkerchief and patted his forehead beneath the wig. "That would not sound good in court. Not good at all." 

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, and seemed to focus his eyes somewhere over the other's head. "I remember Miss Pomfrey's student days here. She was the reason we stopped bed check in the girls' dorms. We could never figure out how she snuck out, and it grew embarrassing. Plus had we caught and expelled her it would have been bad for morale." 

Dumbledore seemed to return to the present, and smiled at the lawyer. "So you could state that she made an educated guess." 

"I believe I'll say 'She made a judgment based on extensive personal experience.'" 

Dumbledore's smile widened and lifted the corners of his beard. "She went missing most often, as I recall, when the boys received their monthly allowances. And when the faculty received their pay." 

"'A judgment based on extensive **professional** experience.' Much better, much better. The parents can't claim she went off half-cocked. 

"Still, though, they claim to offer proofs. Here are statements signed by his roommates, and photos. Now, it was easy to take photos of his condition after the treatment, but I demanded photos of his prior condition, which of course they couldn't supply." 

Dumbledore frowned for a moment, and then his face cleared. "An odd envelope arrived by owl the other day. Now I understand. Here, have a look." He opened a desk drawer and took out a thick envelope. He began to pass it across the table, but stopped in mid-motion and tilted the contents onto the table. Several dozen photos slid out, and he fanned them across the desk. 

The lawyer gazed raptly at the pictures. For a minute, then two, then three. Finally Dumbledore said, "Theo? **Theo**?" 

His eyes roved over the photos as he spoke. "Yes. No, I mean. Not useful as evidence. If they were Muggle photos, perhaps. They do focus on the affected organ. But each of these also has one of Ernie's roommates in it. At least one. Roomates? Friends, I should say. Yes, most certainly friends. Precision is important to the law. But in these wizarding photos his friends never permit an unimpeded view of the area of the alleged injury." He lifted his eyes from the photos at last and looked at Dumbledore. "Nonetheless, in the interest of thoroughness, I'd like to take this new evidence with me to study at length. So to speak. With your permission?" 

"Of course, Theo. Here, let me help you." 

"No thank you, Albus, I can manage quite well." 

Dumbledore looked on as the other slowly returned the photos to the envelope and placed it with care in a pocket of his robe. 

"Theo, you were lawyer for Hogwarts when I became Headmaster. You couldn't lift a single piece of paper then. The first time I saw you pick up as much as a parchment was a decade ago. Now you've carrying that whole stack of photos. Would it be indelicate of me to ask you to explain?" 

"Because I'm a ghost, you mean?" 

"I've tried never to allude to it, but yes. Precisely." 

"It was a spell cast by old Nicholas Flamel. Every time a clerk at my old law firm signs my name to a letter, I grow a little stronger, a little more vigorous. Of late they've been sending out a lot of letters. And many to folk young enough to believe it was really me who signed, which makes the effect of the spell stronger yet. I haven't felt so chipper in a century. I've even taken on new clients." 

"All from the wizarding world, I'm sure." 

"Not all. Writers, too. There are quite a few ghost writers, didn't you know? But even the live ones have got imagination. I had some as clients when I died, and just kept them." 

"Anyone I might have read?" 

"Well, there was Mr. Tennyson. Poet to the King, you know. Gave him a bit of a start, when I arrived for a meeting just as he came back from my funeral. But he adjusted right quickly. Said every lawyer was admitted to the bar, and now he had one who'd crossed the bar. Said it even gave him an idea for a poem." 

"I believe I've read it. Did you like it?" 

"Latin and the Law, professor, Latin and the Law. Never read anything else all my life, nor all my death. 

"Dickens was another fine client, kept me on even when I was immaterial. Said that there was so little blood in a live lawyer as made no difference. He also said he thought of me when writing characters for a couple of his books." 

"Fascinating. One I can guess. I shall have to think on the other. But surely modern Muggles find your immateriality a bit odd?" 

"Not at all. One thing I worked on for Mr. Dickens was copyright. You know, in the Colonies he never got Royalties. Those damn Yankees had no Royalties for foreigners. Didn't like the name, I suppose, didn't like a thing that sounded of Kings. 

"But do you know what they have now, Albus? An author can earn Royalties for seventy years after he's dead! If dead authors can make money, why not dead lawyers? 

"I've got a new client, a lady writer. Sells like Dickens - like the very Dickens. Even told her a bit about you and your school, Dumbledore, nothing confidential, of course. I've solved quite a few problems for her." 

"For example?" 

"A man wrote a book about her books, and even made it look like hers. We couldn't have won before a court, but I threatened him with a suit at law and made him change the _dust jacket_." The lawyer looked pleased and nodded his head at the last phrase. 

"I've even been able to help her with some non-legal problems. Lots of children bought her books, and adults were ashamed to be seen with them. So I told her," the lawyer paused, and looked triumphant, "for the grown-ups, make a different _dust jacket_". 

"Then people were making stories about her stories, and putting them for others to see on a thing called an Internet. Sort of a cross between your wizard pictures and a telegraph. Wrote things no children should see, except maybe your students here, from what I know of them. 'What shall I do, Theo?' she asked me? And I said -" 

"Dust jacket?" inquired Dumbledore. 

"Exactly! I told her, 'I can't make them take it down, but I can make them wrap it up in a cover so children can't see it! A _digital dust jacket_!'" 

Dumbledore chuckled. "I believe I see the book Dickens put you in. Tell me, Theo, did you ever mention to Dickens the subject of _King Charles' head_?" 

"Disgraceful what they did to King Charles! That's no way to depose a King. If I'd been around I would have shown them how to do it. I helped do it right later on - perhaps I've told you." The lawyer paused. "But how did you guess about King Charles's head? You're a wizard, Dumbledore!" 

"I won't deny it, Theo, but that took no magic at all." He sighed. "I enjoyed your stories. More than I enjoy revisiting my student's little problems." He waved a hand, and the next folder wafted down. "What have we next?" 

Theo looked at the papers. "A fifth-former whose parents complain she dated a werewolf at Hogwarts." 

The Headmaster held up a palm, "I've made it clear that at Hogwarts there is to be no discrimination against werewolves." 

"It's not really that. They're a modern, open wizarding couple. Why, the girl says when she came home for summer vacation and started seeing a Muggle, her parents kept asking her about 'that nice wolf boy.'" 

"So what happended?" 

"It seems that on the first full moon of summer, the boy, or rather the wolf, came to visit and the couple were surprised by her parents. _In flagrante delicto_, we say in the law. When I rode to the hounds, the term we used was 'knotted'." 

"I see how that might have made them see the relationship less abstractly. But how is it any concern of Hogwarts'?" 

"Well, the school is _in loco parentis_ to students. They may have a point, may very well. However, the situation seems to have solved itself. The boy's grand-dam died, and left quite a fortune to him. So I'll file petitions and ask for postponments on this, and I think the girl's parents will come around. 

"And now I've taught you a point of wizardry, professor." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Silver doesn't always harm a werewolf. No more than gold does." 

Dumbledore smiled. "So that will solve itself." He looked at the stack of folders. "Does any of the rest of this really need to be looked at today?" 

"To tell the truth, Albus, they're the usual problems, and they're all resolved. 

"Only the Macmillan boy's parents really worry me. Perhaps you have some suggestions?" 

Dumbledore again rose and went to the window. He looked out at the lake for a minute. There was a disturbance on the water, and one of the giant squid's tentacles rose from the water and descended with a splash. 

Dumbledore returned to his seat. "Perhaps we didn't handle Ernie's problem as delicately as we could have - though it was scarcely a delicate problem. Still, in the interest of the school ... You feel the most difficult point is Ernie feels he's, ah, been left with a Vienna sausage?" 

"Precisely." 

"He must have thought that to start with, or he never would have risked the spell. Very well." He lowered his voice. "Perhaps you could suggest that this may be, shall we say, an hereditary shortcoming? The elder Macmillan was on the Quiddich team when he was here, and the other boys made up a song about him. Sung it in the locker room. Quite specific, I believe, and relevant. It hasn't been sung for thirty years, but I'm sure old Macmillan hasn't forgotten it. Perhaps we could find an old teammate who remembers it, to sing it in court?" 

The lawyer smiled broadly. "I think he might be inclined to accept a settlement to avoid that possibility. The mother, however, seems even more convinced than the father that the issue is an important one. I don't understand that." 

"Some old wives' tale, no doubt," said Dumbledore. 

"I recall the mother. Ah, yes. I have a copy of her family tree here somewhere." He waved his wand, and a rattling and rustling drifted down though a trapdoor in the ceiling, followed a moment later by a parchment trailing a cloud of dust that sparkled in the afternoon sun. "I believe her husband has no knowledge of this." Dumbledore unrolled the parchment on his desk before the lawyer. 

"I'm not sure I see..." said the lawyer. "It looks like a Muggle Royal family tree would look, lots of interconnections. Oh, here. Hmm. Young Ernie's uncle is also his grandfather?" 

The broad smile reappeared. "I think it would be most effective if I were to meet with the boy's parents separately. I believe they will accept the _status quo_ when faced with these arguments." 

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course, if you prefer not to use this ..." 

"Professor, you went to wizarding school, and have no problem drinking those potions and saving a little on the food budget by serving 'breakfast wieners'. I went to law school, and I see no problem with causing people to come to terms by threatening to reveal matters like these. No problem at all." 

The lawyer rose from his chair, hovered for a moment a few inches above the carpet, and carefully descended. "I had best be going to arrange those meetings with Macmillan's parents. And to study these most pertinent photos of their son. Good day, Albus." 

"Thank you again, Theo. I don't know what we'd do without you." 

* * *

_Note usual and unusual **disclaimers** apply: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. _

Mr. Dick from **David Copperfield** (whose mental infirmities caused him to bring **King Charles's Head** into everything he wrote) belonged to Charles Dickens. Both Dickens' problems with U.S. Copyright, and current copyright law, are as represented. 

Lastly, the law permits satirizing public figures, and lets one say what one likes about the dead. I'd like to acknowledge the inspiration of **A Certain Law Firm**, which had the idea of frightening children with letters signed by a dead lawyer, and which claims on its Internet site that it helped negotiate an abdication. 


End file.
